


Captain Brainstorm and Sea-Hawk John

by 221b_hound



Series: Lock and Key [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Forgiveness, M/M, Pirate John, Pirate Sherlock, Rimming, Roleplay, Rope Bondage, Sexual Fantasy, Siblings, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:40:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8544763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: John imagines sexual fantasies and tells them to Sherlock; but Sherlock is a more hands-on kinda guy. As Captain Brainstorm, he's going to kidnap his First Mate, Sea-Hawk John, and teach him a couple of sexy lessons about who's in charge of this ship.





	1. Press-ganged

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a short WiP - three or four chapters at most. Tags will be added as I go.

The man waited in the shadows and watched. The sun was well past the yardarm, but this being summer, hours remained before it slid below the western horizon.

Friday. Late afternoon. Warm. Forecast for fair weather ahead. Pedestrian traffic clear. And on time, John Watson, leaving the clinic. A job he maintained more to keep his hand in than for income. Part of his identity, being a doctor. Even though GP work often bored him, it made him feel that he kept up a bit of independence.

The pirate captain couldn’t begrudge him that. Understood it more than most. He’d chosen his own path out of a fierce dedication to independence, after all; and a more fierce aversion to boredom.

Well, this wouldn’t be boring. John Watson wouldn’t be bored either.

Time to strike.

*

Hands on the back of his collar, at the belt of his jeans, jerking him back into the alley made John Watson react with a sharp jab of the elbow, a stamp down with his foot on toes, before more tell-tale sensations caught up with him. The soft _urffhh_ of pain, the familiar masculine scent, the just-so height of the man behind him.

“Sherlock! Jesus, what are you…?”

The hands tugged him hard into the alley, flush against Sherlock’s body.

“There’ll be no land-borne names here, Watson, you scurvy dog,” Sherlock breathed into his ear, husky and tinged with some salty accent. “And you can consider yourself press-ganged.”

John had gone quiescent in Sherlock’s hold, waiting to understand, but his first flush of comprehension couldn’t possibly be true.

“ _Watson_?” All John’s scepticism and startled irritation was in that name. “You…”

“Careful, now,” said Sherlock, that accent a whisper stronger, “I make allowances for my First Mate, but I don’t allow liberties.”

John held very still in Sherlock’s arms and launched into the second flush of comprehension without, he thought to his great credit, laughing. He could see the cuffs of the coat, now, and it wasn’t the Belstaff. He could see the boots. The leather kept on going up, and up. He thought he could feel a hard, oblong object poking into his back, but not anatomically where he might have expected it. A gun then, holstered. A very odd gun.

“You allow a lot of liberties, Captain Brainstorm,” said John mildly, “Quite often.”

Sherlock’s low laugh tickled his ear. “Aye, I do. But ye’ve overstayed a shore leave without me, and I think there’ll be a reckoning on that, Sea-Hawk John.”

A snort of amusement did escape at that one. “ _Sea-Hawk_ _John_?”

Still speaking softly, but in his normal voice, Sherlock said, “Technically an osprey: deadly accurate sea predator, overprotective of the nest, reversible toes, mates for life. Sea-Hawk has a better ring to it, though. Osprey’s not really a pirate name. Do you want to do this thing or not?”

John ruthlessly fought down the giggles. They had not planned this together, but he knew Sherlock had been planning _something_ these last few weekends.

Was John up for some kind of sexy pirate shenanigans in actual life? Oh, _hell,_ yes. He wanted at least one good look at Sherlock all done up like a proper swashbuckler. For starters. That arse in breeches had to be worth the price of entry alone. Innuendo very much intended.

“Aye, Captain,” John said. He didn’t bother with the accent. He was rubbish at them. “But why’ve you taken against me having shore leave?”

“You’ve been gone past the time agreed, Sea-Hawk,” said Sherlock, dropping instantly back into character, “And you know you belong to me.”

“Pledged to you, sword and soul,” countered Sea Hawk John immediately, adopting a piratical patois as easily as if he’d rehearsed it before (and may Sherlock never find the handwritten notebook hidden in the surgery in which he’d amused himself writing pirate adventures before giving it up as a bad job and reverting to blogging), “But I’m my own man, Captain.”

“You think a parley’s in order,” said Captain Brainstorm, “But you’ll get a lashing.”

“Lashing or tongues, I’m game,” the First Mate riposted, tone as full of challenge and daring as his Captain’s, “But I’m First Mate, not a scurvy swab.”

“We’ll see about that.” The Captain stood back and pulled Sea-Hawk around by the shoulder, giving the First Mate an eyeful of tall piratical splendour – tight fitting breeches and thigh boots; a flowing cream shirt and a galleon coat flaring wide, at one hip a flintlock, at the other a cutlass, and on that head of dark curls, a tricorner hat. A gem glinted in Captain Brainstorm’s ear, matching the glint in his pale eyes.

The Captain grinned at the slack-jawed appreciation evident in his First Mate, and with devilish confidence and a proprietorial air, he cupped Sea-Hawk’s crotch through his trousers and firmly fondled him.

“You gave yourself to me when you abandoned the King, Lieutenant,” Brainstorm said.

“Aye,” breathed Sea-Hawk, mizzenmasted in a manner of speaking by the attention. Then John grinned. “How do we get out of this bloody alley, hmm, or are we doing this here?”

Sherlock jerked his chin in the direction of a car parked just down the alley. “Clothes for you in the car. Come on.” He let go of John’s stirring cock and gestured the way.

John strutted jauntily down to the car and opened the front passenger door until the Pirate Captain called out, “Press-ganged, remember! And you can’t change in the front while I’m driving. Into the back of the Nightshade with you.”

John obliged his Captain, who placed his hat, flintlock and cutlass on the passenger seat, flicked out his galleon coat and took the wheel for the drive into the country.


	2. Gunpowder, Sweat and Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's plans include a lot of things John wasn't expecting for this role-play. Sherlock's drive for roleplaying authenticity means a lot of olfactory stimulation. Gunpowder, sweat and salt. Also the joy of ripping off buttons and a really good treehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it'll pan out to four parts now, because we haven't even reached the jolly rogering yet.
> 
> Also, I know sod-all about flintlocks. Let us, like John, just go with the flow.

John had managed to wriggle about in the back seat until he’d pulled on and buttoned up the white breeches, and the short black boots, and the white shirt and blue frock coat and _my god all those fucking buttons_. He’d almost not bothered with the several fucking thousand of the things, only at a set of traffic lights, Sherlock cast a hungry look over his shoulder and said, “All yer buttons ship-shape, Sea-Hawk. Yer Capt’n’ll be wanting to tear those off you later.”

Every single button, on breeches, shirt and coat, were fastened, holy fuck, yes. A tricorner hat completed the ensemble. John was mostly glad he couldn’t see himself in a mirror. In any case, when Sherlock took another look later on, his wicked grin was all the approval of the result John needed.

Sherlock still wouldn’t let him in the front seat.  “Press-ganged, Sea-Hawk John,” he kept saying, “And I like that ye still have yer old uniform.”

Yes, well, John knew that. Sherlock’s heated attitude to John in uniform was now a well-established fact.

In his not-pirate voice, Sherlock said, “You wear it because it allows you to gather intelligence when we’re in port.”

John really didn’t care why Sea-Hawk John was in uniform beyond the fact that Captain Brainstorm liked it and aimed to tear off the buttons, but Sherlock was rather wedded to detail.

“I’ve got the King’s cloth on me,” was all John said, “But it’s your ink I wear, and your service I’m sworn to.”

That made the Captain grin.

Summer glow was still in the air when the Pirate Automobile Nightshade pulled in at the two storey cottage.

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock.” John’s exasperation was born of a sudden fear that things were not going to plan, “This is your parents’ house!”

“They’ve gone to Paris for the weekend,” Sherlock informed him, bringing the light back into John’s world. Then Sherlock alighted from the car, slung on the belt with his flintlock and cutlass again, pushed the hat onto his head and opened the car door to let John out.

“Come and let me look at ye,” he drawled, half dragging Sea-Hawk John from the carriage. He pushed his first mate against the body of the vehicle and with a saucy eye cast a devouring gaze from hat to boot-tip.

“Look at ye,” the Captain snarled, contempt curling his lip, “Been to one of them _bath-houses_ have ye, scrubbing off the sea? Nothing can scour my marks off you, though.” Holding Sea-Hawk firm against the carriage, he leaned in close and took a long sniff of the sailor’s neck. “Your fancy soaps will be for naught,” he growled, “You’ll be all sweat and salt and me again soon.”

John was deeply willing at this point to be turned around, debagged and rogered to joyful oblivion against the car door, so all he managed in reply was to grunt and stretch his chin up. His Captain obligingly sucked on his throat until it hurt deliciously.

“That’s my Sea-Hawk,” Captain Brainstorm muttered approvingly afterwards, giving the First Mate’s rising mast an encouraging squeeze. “You remember who you belong to now, don’t ye.”

“Still… my own man,” Sea-Hawk managed to gasp out defiantly even as his hips jerked his crotch into the Captain’s palm.

“We’ll see,” Captain Brainstorm rumbled into his ear, before taking the lobe into his teeth, sucking and biting, while he rubbed the heel of his palm between Sea-Hawk’s legs until a keening rose in the back of the sailor’s throat.

Then the Captain pushed away – Sea-Hawk made a gruff sound of protest – and took a fistful of the First Mate’s blue coat. “But first I’m going to get the stink of soap and land off you.”

Whatever the hell that meant – John had come from work; if anything he smelled of antiseptic and the three year old who’d peed on him today – Sea-Hawk John was all for it.

While the Captain fetched a long object from the carriage, John adjusted his uniform – parts of it were skewed from putting on in the back of a moving vehicle – and he adjusted himself in the front so the buttons didn’t pinch anywhere sensitive. Then he submitted to be guided by Captain Brainstorm onto the property.

They walked into a small wood beside the cottage and from there into a clearing. At one end of it was a target, still visible in the falling summer light.

Brainstorm stood behind his First Mate, pressed up close and tight, and said, “You should smell of gunpowder.” He nipped Sea-Hawk’s neck. Then he angled his hips so that he could draw the flintlock. “Show me how you do it. Shoot straight and deadly.”

Sea-Hawk John took the weapon and tested the weight of it in his hand. He examined the grip and the barrel. He did a double take and looked again.

“This isn’t a trophy antique,” he said, “The barrels are filled in those.”

“No. Fully operational flintlock. Loaded and ready to go.”

Sherlock rutted gently against John’s backside, so it seemed the flintlock wasn’t the only one.

“Where did you get it?” John was half appalled at Sherlock owning a firearm that could blow up in his face, and half intrigued because it was a beautifully restored weapon. Another half somehow pushed into the situation to account for how aroused he was by the combination of this gun and Sherlock’s reaction to it.

“The French antiquities smuggler case,” said Sherlock, “The curator was very helpful.” He snugged up close behind John. “It works.”

“You’ve fired this thing?”

“Twice. Your turn, now.”

John was torn between rowing about the risks of firing ancient firearms on your own out in the woods and wanting to do it himself. Sherlock nibbling on the back of his neck decided the issue.

“No distractions,” he warned.

Sherlock promptly reached around to cup John’s crotch and fondle.

John promptly grasped Sherlock’s fondling hand with his own and pushed down hard – a nice, pleasing, even pressure, no movement. Just wonderful weight. He raised the flintlock and sighted the target. He took a few deep breaths to relax. Cleared his thoughts. Inhaled. Held his breath and that pleasant, even pressure at his groin that made him hyperaware of the connection from ground to feet to cock to core to arm to eye to target. Exhaled; paused on the exhale, and squeezed the trigger.

A great whoosh and roar of the bullet leaving the chamber and striking the target dead on was accompanied by a strong waft of gunpowder, and a moment later by Captain Brainstorm’s fingers flexing over Sea-Hawk John’s cock while the Captain pushed up against his rear.

Sea-Hawk John held the flintlock away – the barrel was still hot – and dropped his head back onto the Captain’s shoulder. His breath juddered in again and the Captain’s hand massaged his prick through the uniform trousers.

“Better,” murmured Captain Brainstorm, reaching his fingers down between Sea-Hawk’s legs to tickle at his balls, “But I’ll not have ye on my ship with anything of the physick or the land about ye. I want ye to sweat. I want salt.”

With that, Brainstorm pushed the First Mate away from him, hard, like it took an effort to separate them. Sea-Hawk stumbled a little, righted himself and turned in time to catch the long object that the Captain threw at him.

“Flintlock away,” said Brainstorm with a sassy lift of his chin, drawing his cutlass as Sea-Hawk shook a matching blade free from the oilcloth in which it was wrapped. “None can beat yer marksmanship aboard the Nightshade, but you’ll never best me with a sword.”

Sea-Hawk John’s filthy grin would have been double entendre enough, only he stepped up to reholster the cooled flintlock at Brainstorm’s waist and made a point of brushing his knuckles over the wanton bulge in his Captain’s breeches.

“We’ll see about that. Sir.” He stood back and took up a fighting stance.

“Foot back,” said Sherlock suddenly, “Arm up. They’re theatre blades, of course. Don’t want to risk cutting off anything important. ” His voice was non-piratical, but it was strained and a touch breathless.

Sea-Hawk John grinned as he adjusted his stance and raised the weapon. His coat pulled across his chest, so he took the time to very slowly unbutton the most restrictive ones.

Captain Brainstorm’s eyes sparkled as the burning light of the setting sun caught the gem at his ear.

Then Brainstorm swung suddenly at Sea-Hawk, forcing the sailor to block the blow awkwardly, the clash of it vibrating down his arm. Sea-Hawk John struck back then turned, bringing his arms in tight, bending knees, making an advantage of his smaller stature to be a compact, moving target, spin and then stroke.

Brainstorm blocked, his sword scraping up the other’s blade and bringing them close together, till Brainstorm could use his free hand to grasp the front of Sea-Hawk’s coat and yank, hard. Golden buttons strained and broke free, flying into the grass and deepening shadows of the small meadow.

Sea-Hawk danced aside, turned struck again, only to be countered and then trapped in an onslaught from the Captain’s longer reach. Step back, step back, step back again until he was back to a broad-trunked tree. The Captain crowded in close, the crossed swords heavy against Sea-Hawk’s chest. They both were heaving for breath, and Sea-Hawk’s skin was hot and wet with the sweat of it. His hat had been lost in the struggle and the sweat-damp ends of his hair licked dark-blond around his brow and nape.

Captain Brainstorm leaned in close, nose pressed to Sea-Hawk’s neck, and inhaled. Then he licked.

“Aye,” he said, rough, breath heavy with the exertion but with more besides, “That’s more like a sailor.”

Sea-Hawk stretched to reach over the crossed blades to nip at the Captain’s chin, while his free hand slid between them to palm at the Captain’s crotch. The captain only laugh-moan-laughed then took Sea-Hawk’s mouth with his own, and then their tongues parried and sought parley a while.

The Captain broke away first, panting, and plunged first his cutlass and then the First Mate’s tip-first into the ground. “Yer decent enough to board my ship now,” he said in a tone very cognisant of the innuendo. He chivvied the First Mate from the clearing, further into the woods, to a ladder made of boards nailed into the side of a grand old beech tree, flanked with a lattice of ropes, like rigging.

John looked up. “You’ve got a bloody treehouse!” He squinted at it. The ladder led up to a platform – he could see the trapdoor in it. The platform was wide, with railings. It seemed to have a cubby house proper built on one end of it. Further up the branches was what looked like a crow’s nest.

“I’ve spent the last few weekends making sure it’s sturdy,” said Sherlock, and then, with a jab of fingers into John’s lower back, said, “Ye’ve permission to board, Sea-Hawk, and board ye will.”

Sea-Hawk John began to climb. Eagerly. He was looking forward to the promise of that permission to be boarding things.

But when he got to the top and pushed open the trap door, he emerged onto firm wooden planking and two tin buckets of water. Brainstorm climbed up behind him, kicked the trapdoor closed, and took a handful of Sea-Hawk’s unbuttoned coat to push him to his knees.

“Ye’ll swab the deck and know yer place before ye get the rogering ye deserve for insolence.”

“I’ll spy,” said Sea-Hawk, glaring up at his Captain, “And I’ll fetch and carry and pour the rum. I’ll stitch your cuts; I’ll do for your enemies. But I don’t.  scrub. Decks.”

Brainstorm manhandled Sea-Hawk to kneel in front of one bucket, which sloshed salt-tanged water. The Captain dropped a bristled brush into the water, throwing another salty splash around.

“Gunpowder, sweat and salt,” he growled, “Is fine cologne for a pirate. No whiff of the land to be left. Scrub.”

John knew perfectly well that Sherlock had a thing for details, but this was surely going too far. His cock ached and he was desperate to be getting down to the boarding, or being boarded, either was good. Fine. Necessary. Now, please.

Then Brainstorm was kneeling behind him, crotch pushed up close to Sea-Hawk John’s arse, the heat and weight of his Captain’s need right there.

“Let’s make it more interesting, shall we, Sea-Hawk?”

From behind, Brainstorm put his arms around Sea-Hawk John to make him kneel upright. He slid his hands down to the white Royal Navy breeches and undid the top button. The next. Then, as he’d done with the coat, the Captain took the cloth and wrenched it, scattering buttons.

Sea-Hawk John was breathing hard.

“Not enough yet, to make it interesting,” the Captain declared. With a relentless hand, he pushed Sea-Hawk down to sprawl on the deck – and Sea-Hawk John was breathing so hard, and his hard cock was pressing so awkwardly down on the deck that he just lay there and let it happen. He let it happen when Brainstorm tugged off each of his black boots. He let it happen when Brainstorm took his breeches by the waist and peeled those off too. Then Brainstorm wrapped his arms around Sea-Hawk’s torso and pulled him back up to kneeling. The sailor’s shirt draped down over that straining cock.

“That won’t do,” said the Captain. He tore the shirt as well. So there his First Mate kneeled, bare arsed, cock out and upthrust, proud as a jutting bowsprit, his torn shirt and buttonless coat flowing about his hips and thighs. The Captain nudged his en-breeched erection against Sea-Hawk’s arse and with his long, fine fingers, played with a nipple on the starboard side, fondled tightening balls on the port.

“Scrub for me, salt and sweat, and all will be forgiven, my Sea-Hawk.”

Held in his Captain's arms, exposed and wanting, Sea-Hawk blindly reached for the bucket, found the brush and wrenched himself away from teasing pleasure to _scrub_.


	3. Shiver me Timbers!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Brainstorm gives Sea-Hawk John a tongue lashing, but the First Mate has a trick or two up his sleeve and he's not so ready to surrender his autonomy as completely as all that. And you know, secretly Sherlock is very pleased with the turnabout, and he would articulate his delight if he wasn't so cross-eyed dizzy with lust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arrrh, me hearties, I be ever so sorry for the delay in the pirate porn. I had other seas to plunder for a day or two, but I'm back to pillage this coastline.
> 
> Whatever that means. But anyway. Here we go. A certain amount of consensual plundering.

Captain Brainstorm watched Sea-Hawk John scrub the deck. He bent to flick the tails of the blue naval coat aside and to push the torn shirt up so that his miscreant First Mate was on full display.

Brainstorm stood with legs braced open, as though steadying himself on the deck in rolling seas, and his arms crossed, though perhaps the stance was more related to the almost painful pleasure of the pressure of an erection confined by buttoned breeches. (Sherlock honestly wasn’t certain if the underside of his cock would wear the imprints of the buttons for days; he felt almost branded by them, but it was worth many button-shaped wounds for this fantastic view.)

Slowly (and with a slightly uncomfortable gait, the result of button-pressure) the Captain forsook the stirring rear view of that offered arse and the straining cock and balls that hung between the sailor’s thighs, flushed and dribbling sticky on the planks. Less bawdy but just as arousing was the sight of the man’s strong arms and hands working the brush over the wood, the sweat on his chest that trickled down his belly. The sweat that ran from face and neck down over a mostly concealed scar and a mostly revealed tattoo of a padlock.

Brainstorm crouched and reached out to place a finger under Sea-Hawk’s chin, raising it until their eyes met.

“You and me against the world, Sea-Hawk. You won’t deny it.”

“I won’t,” agreed Sea-Hawk, his blue eyes piercing even as he panted and squirmed under Brainstorm’s regard and the feel of a cooling breeze across his balls. Rather than quenching his desire, he seemed to become even more aroused.

Brainstorm suddenly seized Sea-Hawk under the arms and hauled him in close, to bury his nose in the salt-sweat-gunpowder tang of the sailor’s chest, nuzzling into his armpit. No complaints of ticklishness ensued, only a heartfelt groan when Brainstorm mouthed at the blond-tufted hollow then slow-licked back to his mouth.

“One more lesson for ye,” muttered Brainstorm.

John could have cried.

But then Sherlock chivvied John onto his knees and around to face the trunk of the beech tree that formed the central pillar to the treehouse. Hanging from the nub of a broken branch was a short length of rope, each end of it clamped in a loop.

Captain Brainstorm pushed Sea-Hawk’s left hand into the left loop and then brought the rope around the back of the mast before bringing Sea-Hawk’s right hand through the other.

“Tied to the mast,” said Sherlock, “Or close enough.” Then he manhandled John until the Sea-Hawk was kneeling with legs spread on either side of the trunk, with his cheek pressed to the bark of the tree he was hugging.

“Jesus, fuck, now please Sherlock, for fuck’s sake before you kill me.”

“Slow to return from shore leave and impatient to start the fucking,” growled Captain Brainstorm into Sea-Hawk’s ear. The words and tone had Sea-Hawk growling, spreading his legs wider and thrusting his arse backwards in search of friction.

Brainstorm’s hands on his arse, spreading the cheeks, brought a shuddering exhale to the man, and then a startled squawk as a salty wet sponge from the second bucket made contact with his bared hole. He almost whimpered as Brainstorm gave him three thorough and not-quite-rough swipes before throwing the thick, soft sea-sponge he’d used to one side.

“That’s fer yer absurd dedication to hygiene,” he rumbled in the First Mate’s ear, “And now for your lashin’.”

And so saying, Captain Brainstorm – who honestly found the torture of making himself wait as good as the actual doing – pushed his hat back on his head, knelt down low and stuck his face right into his recalcitrant Mate’s rear and licked.

Sea-Hawk John gibbered and thrust and keened.

“Quiet, sailor,” muttered Brainstorm, “It’s a dead sea tonight and the King’s ships over the horizon may hear.”

“Wh.. wha…hmm?”

“Neighbours, John.”

Sea-Hawk John waggled his arse for more attention, pressed his forehead to the mast and clamped his jaw tight on any further keening.

Brainstorm went back to his tongue lashing, perversely now, despite the warning, trying to make Sea-Hawk cry out again. He kissed the pucker and then licked deep. He massaged the lovely buttocks in either hand and gently bit the round flesh spilling out between thumb and forefinger before making his tongue a point and wriggling it into the wet, slick hole. He tilted his head to get lower, licking at balls and perineum before working his way up to deep-tongue-kiss Sea-Hawk’s hole again, and all the time, Sea-Hawk John made not a sound, though he shivered and his hips jerked in sudden need for friction he could not find.

Brainstorm gave the cleft a final nuzzle before kneeling closer, pressing his body along Sea-Hawk’s back. “And now I’ll have ye.”

“Fuck please, god, Sherlock!”

Grinning, Brainstorm knelt up, undid his breeches and with a groan of relief, shoved them down to his knees. His cock instantly pressed hot against Sea-Hawk’s back.

“Please tell me you have lube up here,” gasped John.

“Yer Captain’s always ready to board,” said Brainstorm against his ear, and turned Sea-Hawk’s jaw to face the screw-top jar labelled (in a too-studiously untidy hand) whale oil. He opened it to reveal a jar full of Vaseline.

“Thank fuck.”

“Thank me,” said Brainstorm as he scooped a generous amount of it on two fingers and proceeded to massage it into the First Mate’s arse.

Sea-Hawk John pressed his forehead to the mast and muttered imprecations as he tried to impale himself on his Captain’s fingers.

And then Captain Brainstorm hitched up his own shirt and galleon coat, and then Sea-Hawk’s tattered coverings and pushed close. As soon as the garments were caught up between the Captain’s chest and the sailor’s back, Brainstorm took hold of his aching erection and slid it down to that hot little pucker and began to push in. Slowly, slowly, slowly – despite Sea-Hawk’s attempts to push back hard – Captain Brainstorm buried himself to the hilt in his Sea-Hawk’s arse and sigh-groaned.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he began to move – pushing up with his hips into Sea-Hawk’s body, pulling away with such exquisite leisureliness that it must have been nigh on torture. Push up, slow slow slow, and leisurely out...oh oh…

Arms around Sea-Hawk’s waist, thighs nudged up right against his bum, Captain Brainstorm made deliberate, sensuous work of sliding his cock up his mate’s hole, struggling against a natural desire to just pump away until they made the deck shake.

“Faster. Fuck. Sherlock. Fuck me. Faster.”

Captain Brainstorm bit and sucked on Sea-Hawk’s earlobe. “I’ll take what’s mine as slow as I like,” he said, laughter insipient in the growl of his voice.

Sea-Hawk’s arms tightened the rope around the mast. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

And didn’t that just make Captain Brainstorm involuntarily jerk his hips harder and faster for a few strokes, but he was onto his First Mate’s tricks, and he slowed right down again.

Sea-Hawk moaned and panted. Captain Brainstorm rubbed the palm of one hand down Sea-Hawk’s belly, to his cock, which was ramrod straight: could have been used to tamp cannon balls down a barrel, that cock, except for the sticky wet stream rendering cockhead and deck both glistening with his want.

“Ye’ll take it slow or not at all,” promised Brainstorm, with the most leisurely of strokes before placing that hand on the First Mate’s nipple and tweaking.

Sea-Hawk’s breath hitched and he moved, chest and cheek now pressed to the mast. His right wrist twisted free of the loop – Sherlock did a quick assessment, concluded that John was not in pain and that continuing ahead full sail was absolutely the best option, and continued the exquisite slow thrusting.

Sea-Hawk’s left hand reached behind him to Captain Brainstorm’s bare thigh, then the right, then he pressed his body back, impaling himself deep, his back to Brainstorm’s chest, his head tipped back onto Brainstorm’s shoulder. Taking on most of Sea-Hawk’s weight for the moment, Brainstorm paused to adjust himself.

And that’s when Sea-Hawk John did it. Leaning back, he flicked his left wrist, still looped in the rope, and tossed the right end around Brainstorm’s lower back to be caught in Sea-Hawk’s right hand, which he promptly slipped back into the loop. That done, he leaned forward again, shoulder to the mast. Brainstorm followed the motion – more comfortable, yes, and allowing greater motion again, but also necessary. Instead of being tied to the mast, Sea-Hawk John was now effectively tied to his Captain.

“Mine,” rumbled Brainstorm into Sea-Hawk’s neck.

“Yes,” huffed Sea-Hawk.

And that’s when Sea-Hawk did the other thing. He arched, pressing his shoulders back again, and the rope that bound his two hands together slackened enough to slip from the small of Brainstorm’s back, over the rise of his generous arse, and underneath. Sea-Hawk pulled forward once more and the rope, tucked under Brainstorm’s bum, pulled the Captain forward too.

Captain Brainstorm only huffed a surprised breath, until the rope slackened slightly again, then tightened, pulled forward, pulling Brainstorm’s hips forward, pushing his cock deep into Sea-Hawk’s arse again.

“Fuck me,” growled Sea-Hawk, “Take me like a pirate takes what he wants. You say I’m yours. Fuck me. Take me. Have me. Now.”

And with that, Sea-Hawk began to flex his wrists rhythmically forward, a lift-and-push, and effectively that lifted Brainstorm’s arse and hips harder and faster and faster and harder till it was now Sea-Hawk John setting the pace.

Head thrown back, mouth open and panting to the sky, Sea-Hawk kept up the pace and Brainstorm was swept along in it, giving in to the power inherent in his First Mate. From a position of submission, Sea-Hawk had claimed equal power and would not let the pirate captain dominate him. When he gave himself to his Captain, he did so as a free man.

Sherlock was so surprised and so delighted by the sudden shift that he was dizzy with lust at the cleverness. He always liked it best when he and John were equals, when John challenged him and … and… and…

Thought went overboard at the sensation of the rope under his buttocks and the way Sea-Hawk John, his John, oh god, encouraged a fucking that was rough and fast and aaaarrrrrrrhhh god the feeling of his prick inside John, John’s muscles tightening around him…

Sherlock wrapped one arm tight around John’s chest and reached down to wrap a hand around John’s cock, and each surge of Sherlock’s hips, encouraged to be harder, faster by the rope under his buttocks, pushed Sherlock’s cock into John, and John’s cock into the circle of Sherlock’s hand.

Until, forgetting neighbours and potential enemies over the horizon on the starboard bow, Sherlock sort of howled as he came, and John sort of roared as he came, and they kept going at it until exhaustion and oversensitivity brought them to a sudden stop.

John leaned against the beech tree and panted. Sherlock leaned against John’s back and panted. After a few attempts, John managed to free one wrist and brought his hands back in front of him. Sherlock shifted slightly and his softening cock slipped out of John’s arse.

The deck definitely needed another swab.

Neither John nor Sherlock gave a damn of course. They simply contrived to wilt a bit and then sprawl side by side and debauched as, well, buggery, on the treehouse deck so they could look up through a canopy of leaves to the summer stars studding the sky beyond.

“Heh hurh hhmmmmmm,” John’s low, rumbling, filthy laugh between gasping breaths was earthy and wicked. He continued to laugh deep, smug and completely satisfied chuckles. Sherlock’s laugh was a tickle caught in his chest, behind the grin he offered to the sky. Relaxed, sated, amused, satisfied as much by the game as the sex.

John reached for Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock twined his fingers through John’s, and they lay there in voluptuous disarray, holding hands, laughing and catching their breath, looking at stars through the leaves.

“You are, though,” said Sherlock after a while.

“What?”

“Mine.”

“Of course.”

“And vice versa,” Sherlock added. “Naturally.”

Then John started to giggle. “Did I…?” he began.

“Don’t,” warned Sherlock, although he knew it was useless. That warning was always useless with John when he got these things in his head. His terrible blog titles were a testament to that.

“…shiver your timbers?”

Oh well. If it couldn’t be avoided. “Perhaps. I certainly claimed my _booty_.”

John’s giggles broke into a raucous laugh. “Maybe next time we’ll get to blow the man down.”

“ _Thar she blows_!” called out Sherlock in a _sotto voce_ version of his pirate voice, and John almost cried with hilarious delight.

Sherlock wondered when on earth he’d started to make so many idiotic filthy jokes and, what’s more, enjoy them. Since all the sex started, he supposed. The role play had been a great success, as well. He’d made it as authentic as possible, under the circumstances. They both stank now of gunpowder, sweat, salt and sex. Perfect.

And then a voice broke in on them, curdling the blood.

“Sherlock Holmes! You have been defiling my tree house!”


	4. Parley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes has interupted the Sexy Pirate Festivities. But perhaps it's time for new insights, a brief truce and a parley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It looks like AO3 didn't send a notice out about Chapter 3. I hope you get this one. You might want to check whether you've missed all the treehouse action.
> 
> This story references the events of [Journeys End in Lovers Meeting](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8519857)

Before John could respond to the voice, Sherlock, with an exasperated harrumph of epic irritation, rolled onto his hands and knees, despite having breeches shoved to his shins like leg braces made of cotton, crawled to the edge of the treehouse deck and peered through the railing at his brother Mycroft’s icy expression on the lawn below.

“ _Your_ treehouse?! You abandoned it and left it to me. We put it in writing. It’s _my_ tree house.”

John, lying on his back with his cock hanging out to the four winds, sighed and laid an arm over his eyes.

“There were specific terms of use, Sherlock.”

“I was _seven_. Planning ahead to sexual liaisons with my future husband wasn’t exactly front of mind.”

Behind the arm, John grinned. He rolled over onto his belly and folded his hands under his chin. From here, he could see the always stupendous rise of Sherlock’s bum. Ooh. Also the line of faint rope burn. Cream for that later. And for his own wrists. Worth it though.

“I know you don’t much care what the neighbours think, Sherlock, but Mummy and Daddy have to live here.”

Mycroft Holmes was a fucking bastard.

“What’s the matter, Mycroft?” sneered Sherlock. “Do you find sex _alarming_?”

John huffed a laugh at that, and then he spotted the diamante that had been stuck onto Sherlock’s ear at the beginning of the proceedings. How had it ended up there, just visible in the crack at the plumpest part of Sherlock’s fantastic rear? Oh well. Never question blessings. He crawled up, pressed his finger into the cleft to retrieve the sparkly thing – making Sherlock jump briefly – and kissed Sherlock’s hip.

Sherlock glanced back at him. John watched Sherlock deduce that John wasn’t half as mortified as Sherlock might have guessed.

“Yes, yes,” John said, “Enough years in the army, you spring people, you get sprung. Also a doctor. It’s all just bodies. And your brother is a prick.”

“I _can_ hear you,” drawled Mycroft.

John extended an arm over the end of the deck and gave Mycroft the finger.

“If you’ve _quite_ finished despoiling my treehouse, I will meet you inside.”

“ _My_ treehouse,” Sherlock immediately countered to Mycroft’s back as the elder brother fetched his front door key.

Sherlock turned onto his back and reefed up his breeches. John pressed the diamante on his fingertip into Sherlock’s navel. “For later,” he said.

Sherlock grinned. Clever John. Salvaging the mood.

John sluiced himself down with the saltwater, then found and put on his breeches too, though the torn buttons might be a problem in getting them to stay up while he climbed down the ladder again. In a moment of inspiration, he tore off a green twig, stripped off the leaves and used the stem to tie the buttonhole and the torn section together.

“Shall we?” Sherlock sighed, sitting on the deck and indicating the ladder and the inevitable, irritating conversation awaiting in his parents’ sitting room.

“In a minute,” John said. He knelt beside Sherlock, took Sherlock’s face in his hands, and kissed him softly.

“That was fantastic,” he said. Sherlock’s eyes crinkled in pleasure. John kissed him again, then he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, pressed his cheek to the curls, and looked out into the darkness at the house. The lights in the sitting room were on now.

“John, he won’t stay. He’ll be off as soon as he’s had his say.”

“Why is he even here?”

“Checking on the house with Mummy and Daddy away, I should think. I didn’t tell him we’d be here for the weekend. He only fusses. Interfering is his hobby.”

“Except when he doesn’t.”

They both were very still. That argument with Mycroft was only three weeks old. The personal aftermath for John and Sherlock had been excellent on several levels. But John still harboured a confused fury at Mycroft.

“Whatever I accused him of at the time,” said Sherlock carefully, “He didn’t really do it because he was enjoying it.”

John brushed his nose against Sherlock’s ear and kissed it. All the rambunctious raunch of their pirate escapade had dissolved into this tenderness. “Why did he wait instead of helping you?” John asked. The twist in the back of his voice betrayed his grief at it; his anger.

“Because he had to.”

John drew a shuddering breath and exhaled.

“You mean… the timing for the extraction team to get you both out of there?”

“The guards and dogs on the grounds; the SAS team and the helicopter. A dozen very finely balanced elements. Too soon, discovery would be inevitable. Too late, we would have missed the window. As it was I needed help to walk. He complained about the blood on his suit.” Sherlock realised his mistake at once. “John, that’s how Mycroft and I talk to each other. It’s how we are.”

“The sibling thing. Yeah. I know. Really, the two of you are amateurs.”

An eyebrow arched.

“You should see Harry and me go at it when we’re on a roll. Projectiles are thrown with malevolent intent. That’s how I developed my great reflexes. We don’t even talk any more. You two are abnormally civilised about it.”

Sherlock chewed at his lip, darkly thoughtful. John brushed his cheek with his thumb.

“Sherlock?”

“I… don’t feel I’ve apologised enough.”

“Don’t be daft.”

Sherlock pressed his fingertips over John’s tattoo. "In not telling you what I’d done, and in telling others, I… marooned you, to go with the theme of the evening. I left you on a desert island. I didn’t realise it at the time, of course. Everyone who knew when you didn’t, meant you didn’t have any of their support. Molly. Mycroft. Even my parents. Even some of the homeless network you knew. In other circumstances they may have been able to… offer…comfort? _Something_. But they knew, and so they kept away from you. THey abandoned you when you needed them, to preserve the secret. Not only you of course.”

“Mrs Hudson and Greg, too,” said John, “The three people Moriarty had threatened to execute.”

“It seemed safest that way. For you, not for me.”

“ _You_ weren’t safe.”

“I survived.”

John cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him again. Wrapped him in his arms and breathed in the scent (sweat, salt, sex, Sherlock) and kissed his temple this time, softly. Sherlock, in turn, nuzzled against John’s bare chest. Another firm hug, and then John spotted Sherlock’s tricorner hat. He snatched it up and set in on Sherlock’s head at a rakish angle.

“There you go. You look rather ravished.”

“Ravishing, I think you mean.”

“I know what I mean.”

They climbed down the ladder, Sherlock first. He gave John the keys from the deep pocket of the galleon coat so he could fetch the suitcase from the car and then enter the cottage through the kitchen, while Sherlock kept Mycroft distracted in the front room. John’s state of deshabille was so fantastically thorough that they’d decided this was the best tactic. John could make his appearance appropriately washed and clothed.

“Pity,” Sherlock murmured, sticking his nose in John’s throat, “You smell perfect.”

“Put it in the mind palace,” John said, “And tomorrow I get to watch your arse as you climb up and down the ladder. I’m assuming you have plans for tomorrow.”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock promised him, “Though not necessarily in the treehouse.”

“I like the treehouse. There’s a crow’s nest.”

Sherlock grinned. “Yes. There is.”

John nodded his militarily sharp nod and strode off with the keys, one hand holding up his ruined breeches, to fetch the luggage.

Operation Enter Unobserved Through the Back Door went without a hitch, and John took the opportunity for an army-issue shower (three minutes, quick scrub, out and dry and dressed in ten) before plucking out a change of clothes and a clean towel for Sherlock and walking up to the sitting room.

Mycroft and Sherlock were arguing, of course.

“What is that on your chest? Oh, Sherlock. I knew there was a tattoo, but _really_.” Disgust was evident in every syllable.

John caught a glimpse of Sherlock – in the breeches, the flowing shirt hanging low to reveal part of the tattoo of the key over his heart. For a moment a shadow of humiliation passed over Sherlock's brow and John, by the door, couldn’t help pressing fingers over his own matching ink. This was not Mycroft’s business. It was not all right for him to mock this. Ire rose over the reasoned conclusion he’d been coming to while in the shower.

Then Sherlock stood taller. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, smooth and calm and confident. “I think it’s rather dashing. Less boring than a ring.”

John unhitched himself from the shadows and joined them, smiling his dangerous-bland smile at Mycroft, who was glaring an entertaining blend of irritation and awkward self-consciousness at them.

“You’d best be heading off. It’s a long drive back,” said John.

“Are you throwing me out of my family home, Dr Watson?”

“Nope. But Sherlock and I are not sleeping in the treehouse tonight.” John let every implication of that sink in. He caught Sherlock’s look of surprise as it turned into a wicked grin.

Mycroft’s sigh was long-suffering and appalled. “Fine. Try not to defile anything else while you’re at it, little brother.”

John shoved towel and clothes into Sherlock’s hands. “I’ll walk him to the car.”

John ignored Mycroft’s poisonous glare and while the sexy, dishevelled pirate sauntered through to the bathroom, the compact and thoughtful army doctor walked in silence with Mycroft outside.

John was thinking about this man, who claimed to love his brother despite the way they spoke of each other;  who had waited while his brother was beaten so badly he still bore the scars. If both things were true – Mycroft Holmes loved his brother, and Mycroft Holmes had watched him be beaten with a metal rod – then what Sherlock said had to also be true. He’d waited because he had to. And then joked about it, because thats what Holmes brothers did. Everything they ever said was a razor-thin line between antagonism and concealment of care.

Idiots. Worse than him and Harry, probably.

Mycroft Holmes had waited and watched that awful thing because the timing of the extraction had to be precise. The rage-making callousness of his comments were a… coping mechanism. A way to bear the unbearable pain of _caring_. Of course they were. Sherlock did the same thing all the time, though not to John any more.

Mycroft lashing out at John about the punch-up? Hurting him back, John supposed. _Deduced_. Reading Mycroft turned out to be not hugely different to reading Sherlock, in the end.

“About the other day,” said John as Mycroft opened the car door. Mycroft stopped.

“I couldn’t have done that,” said John. “Watched while they beat him, until the time was right to go.”

Mycroft inhaled, though his face hardly changed. Except there, the corner of his mouth. The eyelid that fluttered.

“I almost understand why you convinced him it was better for me not to know. The risks you take with him are so calculated. I’m a variable you can’t quite account for.”

“You flatter yourself.”

“You think if I’d been there, I wouldn’t have been able to stand it. I’d have stopped it as soon as I could, and led us to disaster. Messed up the extraction and got us both killed.”

“Yes.”

“You're right. But maybe if I’d been with him, he’d never have ended up in that cell. With you having to watch them do that to him. Have you considered that?”

“I… have. But the permutations… With Sherlock’s brains and your audacity in the field, perhaps, but his feelings for you compromise…”

“And that’s where I think you’re wrong. But… “ John shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It wasn’t the right time for us then. It is now. We’ve made our peace with each other, over the things that happened.”

“Time for that happy announcement then?” The slyness, the sarcasm. The deflection. Just like Sherlock in so many ways.

“Too late, you missed it.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed, wondering how.

"You know,” said John, “I used to play these stupid mind games with myself, thinking he wouldn’t have jumped if I’d just done something, anything, differently. My best friend, the man I loved, wouldn’t have suffered and died like he did, if only I’d known what to do. And then I found out the truth, and it… fucked me up probably worse than watching him die.”

Mycroft was staring at John now, as though unable to comprehend this confession of deep feeling from a man who guarded his heart so fiercely. The man with _trust issues_.

“Then finally I realised… I couldn’t have done anything to change what happened. None of it. Not the jump, not the years of grieving when he was out there alone, not the way he came back. The choices had all been taken right out of my hands. All I had was reaction. All I had was my… pain. I’m not proud of what I did to him. But I don’t feel guilty. It was what it was. All the choices were taken from us and it was all we had left.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed.

“So I get you. About Serbia. You letting it happen. All the choices were out of your hands.”  
  
Mycroft swallowed.

“You don’t feel guilty about it. It was the result of having no choices left,” John said, gently enough to be kind, firm enough not to be contradicted. “But you’re sorry for it.”

He didn’t think he’d ever seen Mycroft so surprised in his life. That flash of shock, then the one of grief, and then the mask again.

“Drive safely,” John said, “Next time you visit, I’ve got a good whisky in the cupboard. Talisker single malt. 18 years old. We can toast survival.”

Mycroft’s face did strange things, trying not to show any emotion. The effort concluded with, “My schedule is free on Wednesday, if you’ll be in Baker Street by then.”

“Just here for the weekend, as far as I know. It was a surprise treat.”

“ _Treat_.” Oh so deadpan, dripping with combined horror and discombobulation. John tucked it away in a little mind locker of his own.

“And it’s his treehouse. He showed me the agreement.”

With a disgusted huff, Mycroft got into his car and drove away.

Hands in his pockets, John hummed a jaunty tune – _hooray and up she rises, hooray and up she rises_ – till he got back into the house.

Sherlock, showered clean and now in a dressing gown, was slumped on the sofa in front of the fire that was just taking. John marched right up to him and sat in Sherlock’s lap, knees either side of Sherlock’s hips. Then he kissed Sherlock, soundly, yes, but also softly. Sensuously, communicating all the love as well as the passion.

“I saw some other things in that suitcase,” he said, voice low. He kissed Sherlock hard again, tilting his head back.

“Well,” gasped Sherlock when he got his breath back, “I was planning on making rather a weekend of it.”

“And for the record, yes. Yours. Unequivocally. And,” he added, biting at Sherlock’s ear and then breathing into it. “Mine. _Aye, aye_ _Captain._ ”

So much for not despoiling any of the furniture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed these Johnlock shenanigans, [here's a thing containing more of what you love.](http://221b-hound.tumblr.com/post/153330244350/a-murmuring-of-bees-improbable-presss-new)


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